


The Porterhouse Affair

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Bribery, Castiel & Dean Winchester Friendship, Cook Benny, Drifter Dean, Embarrassed Dean, Embarrassment, Fluff, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Librarian Castiel, Librarian Sam, M/M, Openly Bisexual Dean, References to Addiction, Sam Is So Done, Smart Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shelf to his right crashes into the other two shelves behind it like the domino effect at the rate of a 20 pound bowling ball, giving everyone around him time to react. Gasps and conspiring whispers pilfer the customarily quiet scene. Before he can put an end to his humiliation, he turns around and knocks a book out of the hands of an unlucky stranger. </p><p>Dean scrounges for an excuse, but those marble icebergs landed him on a probing table and what ends up coming out is:</p><p>“I can fix this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Porterhouse Affair

“Thanks for this, Cas.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Dean,” Castiel replies, sporting a smile that creases his lips like a mountain fold. “Anyway I can help.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah, actually if you could do me another teensy favor… don’t tell your boss you hired me. We’ll _both_ get put through the grin—”

“Oh my _God_.”                                                                                                                          

Speak of the devil. He’s standing in the doorway, the sunlight beating his back. He’s donning a solid-color sweater vest—this one a sickly brown covering an ironed-out Waldo-inspired long-sleeve and blue tie—and a dark pair of slacks. His hair’s in his usual part, but Dean has to refrain from hacking up a tonsil because his Bieber bangs are parted to the side with something sticky enough to attract fruit flies.

Dean’s lips plateau and form a small, “Hiya, Sammy.”

Sam files inside the shop, zeroing in on Cas. “So what’s the deal, you like him better or something?”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cas deflates like a Dollar Store balloon, “Dean is just so nice. He took me out for lunch today and you know how I get when I see a porterhouse cheeseburger—I caved.”

“You _bribed_ him?” Sam scoffs, long fingers flying the bridge of his nose, “How are we even related?”

“In all fairness, _I_ got the porterhouse too,” Dean attests. “Purgatory cooks them with just enough juice to—”

Sam holds up his hand, “I get it, alright. Don’t need to paint me a freaking picture.”

“Why? You afraid you’ll relapse on your forest cleanse?”

“See, Cas,” Sam says, switching two dust-encrusted books on the shelf closest to him, “I told you he’s not all he’s cracked up to be. One minute you’re minding your own business, the next he’s dragging you into another one of his grand schemes to get a job.”

Cas turns to Dean, feet still rooted into the shoe-scuffed wood, bright blue eyes shining, “I still like him.”

“We’re still on for Deadpool next week, yeah?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss Ryan Reynolds’ naked fight scene for all the porterhouses in the world.”

Dean high-fives the suited librarian with a grin slapped on his face, “You complete me, Cas.”

“Oh my _God,”_ Sam grouses again, not one, but _two_ aisles away now, “If you’re going to be working under me, at least keep a professional profile.”

Dean’s face twists faster than that bendy chick he dated in high school, “That sounds vaguely dirty.” Sam’s voice drops to a growl before Dean throws his hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright, there’s no need to get your tighty-whities stained, what do you want me to do?”

***

The broom hits the floor with an obnoxious _thwack._ There’s a proper way to clean, but there are two factors—a) In his twenty eight years of joking, smoking, and toking, Dean’s never learned the “proper” way to clean and b) he doesn’t want to seem like he’s actually _enjoying_ something. Dean’s swiped the occasional copy of Sam’s nerd fiction when they were under the same roof. Broomsticks remind him of two things: Daniel Radcliffe and Nicole Kidman. And both those things are gold stars in his book, if he ever got them.

There’s also the whole sci-fi genre. Lord of the Rings is his favorite. The movies, not the books. (However, despite his own underestimations, he can probably withstand 1,000 plus pages of Abercrombie Abs if the abs in question are Aragorn’s.) His best friend, Charlie, holds a live action roleplay game that pays tribute to the highly-acclaimed trilogy called Moondoor. Dean attends every year. He’s even moved up in ranks from handmaiden to Sargent Wallace.

Only now does Dean realize why he hasn’t completed a secondary education.

In his defense ( _Sam),_ he _was_ in the lineup for an accredited mechanical engineering school… until he got in a fender that cost him his tuition to fix. Then he decided to become a firefighter to honor his mom. Then a rock historian for the hell of it. Then he just wanted to _rock,_ and… well, yeah, that brings him to here, sweeping the needling smell of dust and accidentally eavesdropping on other student’s conversations involving intended majors and prestigious schools.

So sue him for having a little fun as he grips the base of the broom with both hands and starts swinging it over his head like the flashing lights on a police car. After three successful pivots, he whips the stick in front of him, vertical to his six-foot length, and deliberately brings the knotted beige hairs to align with the divide of his freckled nose. He draws in a slow but sure breath. _Fuck Jackie Chan,_ he thinks, _I’m Batman, bitch._

Then, as if on cue, he flips the position of the broom and starts hacking at the antiquated air. A few books fly off the shelves like a faulty Superman cape, but Dean just regards them as beheadings—wicked ones at that. It’s no surprise, really. Dean’s watched _Kill Bill_ until his eyes were coated in blood. (Maybe that was a mixture of Diet Pepsi and popcorn grease. Either way, Dean likes his emotions like Bon Jovi: on occasion.)

A loud crash stirs him from his dreamscape. The shelf to his right crashes into the other two shelves behind it like the domino effect at the rate of a 20 pound bowling ball, giving _everyone_ around him time to react. Gasps and conspiring whispers pilfer the customarily quiet scene. Before he can put an end to his humiliation, he turns around and knocks a book out of the hands of an unlucky stranger.

They’re nice hands, tanned and round, like a workman’s. But they don’t come close to rivaling the pale blue eyes currently staring holes wide enough to build a sandcastle.

Dean scrounges for an excuse, but those marble icebergs landed him on a probing table and what ends up coming out is:

“I can fix this.”

***

"You _what?”_

“I swear on my grave,” Dean says, stabbing into his straighter-than-him French fry, “you should’ve seen the look on my face when I realized it was my _brother’s_ backend. That marked the end of my mechanical career.”

Benny threw his back into his chair laughing, sky blue eyes glistening with tears. The state of those eyes is probably equivalent to Sam’s right about now as he wonders (not for the first time) where his delinquent brother ran off to this time.

“Yeah,” Benny breathes, wiping his cheeks, “that pretty much beats the story I was gonna tell ya.”

Dean throws his hands up at the hot, Cajun-tongued stranger, “Nah, nah, go ahead, I’m sure yours is better.”

“Okay, well once I was workin’ at this diner, a little hole in the wall crapshoot in Louisiana, right? A few weeks into bustin’ my ass, people start callin’ me Roy, who unbeknownst to me was a convicted murderer…”

While Dean’s listening intently to the story, he can’t help but notice the men and women passing their table, waving hello and calling Benny by name. Dean can stomach the fact that willing customers want to take him down South—because let’s face it, between his golden beard, the laugh lines around his eyes, and his robust frame, Benny is a centerfold worth a battle of the sexes—but literally every other _person?_

After a few funny misconceptions and an unwarranted _warrant_ for his arrest _,_ Benny’s story comes to a close and Dean brings it up, “I notice a lot of people coming up to us. I hate to be the cheesiest pickup line known-to-man, but do you come here often?”

Benny flushes a pink that imitates the inside of his porterhouse burger, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Hey, Benny,” a sprightly waitress, Liz by her nametag, chirps. She’s cute—like Abercrombie’s _female_ models cute: Little makeup, lots of hair, and a shy smile. Dean can picture hitting her up if she wasn’t so obviously invested in Benny. “What’re you doin’ here? I thought you didn’t work the afternoon shifts.”

Dean’s mouth drops. “You work _here?”_ he says, placing his finger so hard on the tabletop he’d probably get a splinter if he didn’t know the place like the front of his foreskin. “ _The_ Purgatory: Home to the famous mouthwatering porterhouse burger.”

“Well, I mean, there’re a thousand other Purgatory’s, but _this_ Purgatory, I suppose, yes.” Benny’s head’s dipped lower to the point where he’s talking into his black trench.

“Benny,” he says, leaning forward with both hands propped on each other, “you’re _awesome.”_

Benny blushes even deeper just as Liz gets caught up on the latest issue of _Benny Insider._ The next thing they know, she’s scurrying towards the kitchen, her cleaning rags trailing behind her like a flag at half-mass. Benny laughs, rubbing the back of his trimmed neck as he watches her go.

“So, you two are, uhm—?”

Benny’s smile fades, but the fondness remains in his eyes: “Uncle and niece.”

“Oh, _oh.”_ Dean’s mind races to catch up with his heart fluttering in his chest like a newborn bird. He tries not to sound too eager when he says, “That’s good.”

“Why you thinkin’ ‘bout askin’ her out?”

Dean’s own smile drips from his face as he shifts and harrumphs, “No. No! Why would you assume—?”

“I’m kidding, Dean,” Benny says, tossing him a wink. “Besides, I can tell you have someone else on your mind.”

Dean nearly chokes on his long-since digested burger. “ _So,_ what were you reading back at the bookstore? You know, before I so rudely plucked you from a better reality?”

“ _Of Mice & Men,” _Benny replies, slopping a fry into his mouth.

“Is that the one about the two guys who go looking for work during the Great Depression, but one guy’s, like, Mike Oher size and no one likes him?” Dean asks before drawing a name off his tongue, “Steinbeck, right?”

Benny chuckles, “Yeah, that’s exactly right. How long have you been workin’ in books?”

“A few hours,” Dean replies, shrugging. “I like reading back covers.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. You’re like a real life Will Hunting.”

“Yeah, except he can actually _keep_ a job,” Dean remarks, pushing his plate aside.

Benny notes the action and leans in closer. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… I have the passion, but lack the follow-through, you know?”

“I do, actually,” Benny says, nodding, “I didn’t start working in the kitchen until a few years ago.”

Dean’s head quirks in interest. “You mean…?”

“Yeapp,” Benny replies, smiling wide enough to catch toothpicks, “I didn’t finish college. Hell, I barely finished high school. Kids are mean, you know? A guy like me’s not the poster boy for hansum—or health. I ate more than I could fit in my hands. I’m surprised I’ve dropped most of my weight since.

But you know what? It was an addiction just like any other, but food made me happy like nothin’ else. That’s when I realized I wanna make other people happy too—in moderation, of course. You’ll get there, I promise. And when you do, it’s all worth it.”

Dean’s pretty sure his pupils widened to the size of green candy hearts with stereotypically sappy things written on them, like _I love you, and U r sweet,_ but it’s not until he catches Benny’s wandering an inch south of his Cupid’s Bow he realizes he’s conveying a different message entirely:

_Kiss me._

“You wanna get out of here?”

Benny can’t scramble out of his seat fast enough.

***

So, Dean got fired.

Worst of all, _Cas_ had to fire him. Dean placed a hand on his rapidly wilting shoulder and reassured him they’d binge all of Ryan Reynolds’ greatest and worst films from naked to _too many layers._ He perked up after that, and Dean helped clean up the mess he made.

As for Benny, the porterhouse burgers were the best thing next to his home-style, _extra stuffed_ chimichanga.


End file.
